Waiting quietly for the bells.
Waiting patiently for a sign.
Looking closely at all the people.
watching all the lies build.
No one knows the truth.
And no one really cares.
Spread the seed of knowledge.
And watch the world burn.
As the sky grows dark.
And the air gets cold.
There are whispers on the wind.
There are secrets being shared.
The darkness is growing.
The lies are spreading.
The truth has been lost.
About the Creator
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson5 days ago in Fiction
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